


On Hippies and College Credits

by the_mystery_twins (Jheselbraum)



Series: The Wind in Visions [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Backupsmore University, College Fiddauthor, Fiddauthor Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jheselbraum/pseuds/the_mystery_twins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(late) entry for Fiddauthor-Fest Day 01: College!</p><p>Stanford moves into his dorm and finds that his roommate isn't quite what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Hippies and College Credits

**Author's Note:**

> Two anxiety attacks:  
> The first one starts at "Hey, look on the bright side" and ends at "No wonder they left laughing"  
> The second one starts at "He clenched and unclenched his fist" and ends at "I'm sorry Stanford"  
> References to self harm, Implied Hanky Panky, not much more than that (as evidenced by the usage of the term hanky panky). 
> 
> This story takes place before the events of The Wind in Visions.
> 
> Special shout out to Fordtato, who helped edit and proofread the fic!

Stanford Pines just _knew_ that Backupsmore was going to be horrible. The dorms were only mostly bug-free, his parents hadn’t even bothered to help him move into his dorm, _Stanley isn’t here--_ no, no he was just fine without Stanley, it’s not like his twin had been his only friend for years, it’s not like he missed him, god no. He just had to work his way through this, just like he’d worked his way through his last few months of high school, just like he’d worked through his first birthday without Stanley there. All he had to do was go to his dorm, unpack his bags, and meet his roommate. _Just meet your roommate, hope they don’t think you’re a freak, get your PhD and get the fuck out of Backupsmore_. Stanford took a deep breath, adjusting the grip he had on his suitcase, and opened the door.

“Greetings, I’m Stanford Pines--” Stanford stopped short, taking in the sight before him.

The first thing he noticed was the god awful tie dyed bedspread on one of the twin beds. There were gaudy, multicolored “PEACE” posters on the walls. His apparent roommate was a thin, wiry man with sandy blonde hair down to his shoulders, and-- oh god, was that a goddamned _banjo_?

 _My roommate is a fucking hippie_.

Stanford had to stifle a groan, rolling his eyes at the spectacle before him. Under normal circumstances, he would list, in alphabetical order, each and every negative adjective he could even remotely attribute to the situation at hand. Hippies had a special way of taking Stanford’s primary interest— anomalies— and getting his hopes up. Interdimensional trips, strange sights that made him feel a little less out of place in a world whose clock was ticking ever closer to midnight, and whenever Ford had pressed for more information, more often than not he’d be handed a joint. Having such a mundane explanation for bizarre phenomena was more than a little disappointing, and having a hippie for a roommate would surely prove irritating on its own, but that alone wasn’t enough to fuel Stanford’s disdain.

_That’s a banjo. He plays the goddamn banjo._

“Howdy! My name’s Fiddleford Hadron McGucket!” the man said, extending his hand. Stanford scowled at it, plopping his suitcase down on what was apparently his bed without a word.

This was going to be a long four years.

Stanford's roommate, Fiddleford— _what kind of fucking name is Fiddleford, anyways?—_ frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I hope you don’t mind me taking the left side of the room none. We can switch if you prefer.”

“No, it’s fine.” Stanford sneered, keeping his back to Fiddleford, _don’t focus on the fact that you’re here alone, don’t think about Stanley, don’t think about West Coast Tech._ “Just stay out of my way and let me study.”

And study Stanford did. 

* * *

 

For months, it was about the _only_ thing Stanford did. To Fiddleford’s annoyance, it seemed that Stanford rarely slept.

Ford winced as the hippie in question lobbed a pillow at his face.

_Okay, maybe ‘annoyance’ is too light a word._

“Will you turn off the light and go to sleep for _once_ , Stanford?” Fiddleford groaned, burying his face underneath the remaining pillow on his bed. “And stop clicking that damn pen!”

“It helps me concentrate, _some_ of us are trying to study.” Ford spat, pointedly downing his third cup of coffee. “And my pen clicking _can’t_ be as bad as your banjo plucking.”

“At least I play my banjo during _daylight_ , not when folks are trying to get some shuteye! Please, just shut out the light! At the very least you could do _that_.”

“Maybe you should invest in a sleep mask, like I had to invest in _earplugs_.” Ford shot back.

Fiddleford grumbled and pulled the covers over his head. He really wasn't in the mood to fight, but he'd been trying to be civil with his roommate for far too long. “GOODNIGHT STANFORD,” he shouted.

Ford grumbled as he got back to studying, his hands clenched into fists. 

* * *

 

 Come midterms, Ford was a wreck. He hadn’t made a single friend, he had barely even stepped out of the dorm aside from going to classes and getting food. He had to study, he had to pass with flying colors, he had to be the _best fucking student Backupsmore would ever see_ , otherwise no one in the scientific community would take him seriously. He couldn’t devote too much time away from his studies, so he’d purchased a thirty count bag of flour tortillas and ten cups of coffee, intending those to be his (entirely unrefrigerated) meals for the next week.

By Monday morning, one hour before midterms began, Ford was sick as a dog in bed: he could barely move.

“I cannot fucking _believe_ you thought eating nothing but goddamned, week old, moldy ass tortillas was a good idea.” Fiddleford spat, scouring through his own textbooks and balancing a thermos filled to the brim with coffee in the crook of his left elbow.

“Hey, look on the bright side. Once I fail all my classes because of one fucking test, we don’t ever have to see each other ever again.” Ford said, glaring at Fiddleford. “You’ll get what you always wanted: away from me.” _Stanford Pines, lifetime straight A student, failing midterms! Going on academic probation! Flunking out of college! I’d go from certifiable genius to a laughing stock that couldn’t even make it through one semester of Backupsmore… Those recruiters were right about me, no wonder they left **laughing**!_

Fiddleford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are your professor’s office hours?”

“What...? Why do you want to know?” Stanford said, trying his best to sit up so he could look as intimidating as he wanted to feel. “What are you planning?”

“I was going to go and talk to your professor.” Fiddleford said, rolling his eyes. “You’re an asshole, but you’ve _literally_ worked your ass off preparin’ fer this test, you should at least get a fair shot at retakin’ it.”

Stanford hesitated, but finally said, “... Faculty room 319 from 10:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. Dr. Mansfield, Engineering 101.” _Even if this is a stupid prank, things can’t get much worse._ “Oh, and you used the word _literally_ incorrectly.”

Stanford spent the rest of the day in bed, too weak and sick to do much of anything, until Fiddleford came back with a cup of soup from the deli down the street, a prepackaged salad, and a bottle of water. “Maybe if you tried eatin’ real food instead’a moldy tortillas, you wouldn’t have gotten sick. Your makeup test is tomorrow at 4:00 pm, don’t be late.” He said, gently placing the food on the nightstand next to Ford’s bed.

Ford sat up, taking the bottle of water first and downing half of it in one gulp, before doing the same with the cup of soup Fiddleford had gotten for him. Ford’s grip on the water bottle tightened, he _knew_ that Fiddleford was a vegetarian, he’d only made fun of him for it a thousand times, and if he wasn’t in Fiddleford’s debt, Stanford was sure he’d make it a thousand and one. And yet, here he was, holding a cup of chicken soup that Fiddleford had gotten him, just after saving his diploma, his dignity, any ounce of pride Ford had left.

“...Thank you, Fiddleford.” He said, quietly, a light smile playing across his face. 

* * *

 Stanford couldn’t explain it, he wasn’t sure he wanted to explain it, but they fought less after that. Fiddleford was more considerate with his banjo practice, and Stanford likewise with his sleeping habits. They’d worked their way from enemies to… friends, it seemed, and Ford couldn’t quite comprehend it.

Their second semester of college saw Stanford opening up a little more, taking care of himself more, gaining confidence (and a little weight thanks to the fact that he was eating normal meals). It wasn't long before Stanford had joined his first club: their campus’ Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons group. Stanford finally had something to do with his Saturday evenings besides studying, and to make things even better, _Fiddleford_ was there, too.

As the school year dragged on, however, the other members showed up less and less, leaving Ford and Fidds to roleplay on their own for the second week in a row in the unoccupied classroom they used for meetings. Stanford slumped in his chair while Fiddleford narrated the scenario their respective characters were going through. He clenched and unclenched his fist, not paying attention to Fiddleford, and slowly used his free hand to cover his extra, accursed finger, just to see how it looked.

“Our heroes travel through the enchanted forest of-- Stanford, are you alright?” Fiddleford asked.

“Is it me?” Ford said, barely keeping eye contact with Fiddleford. “Did the other members not show up… cause of me?” Ford felt like a freak, like no one was capable of seeing past his hands and realizing that he was something worthwhile, he felt like rushing back to his dorm and studying his ass off just to prove them wrong.

“What…? Ford, of course not! Most of them are English majors, they all have big papers due soon, they probably realized now is the time to stop procrastinatin’ and get their butts in gear. The guys love you, Ford, what's the matter?”

Ford stared at Fiddleford like he'd grown a second head, still keeping his hold on his extra finger, absentmindedly wondering how much it would hurt if he snapped it clean off. _A lot,_ he decided, _and it would get blood on the floor and make a big mess, and God knows what Mom would say if she found out._ Without a word, Ford held up one hand, wiggling all six of his fingers, hoping Fiddleford would get the message.

Fiddleford blinked, it took him a good minute to figure out what Ford was trying to say. “Yer… Yer hand? Ford, nobody cares about that! You've seen Kevin's braces and Jim has that god awful mole on his nose, that's nothin’. I think your hands are kinda neat. You can do all them fancy tricks with the dice!”

“Fiddleford, you were the first person besides Stanley to never really make a big deal out of it. You say that no one really cares about it, but people _do_ notice, and it's not good, and it's usually _all_ they notice. For a long time, people fucking called me _Stanfreak Pines._ I _notice_ when people spend half their lecture _staring_ , and when they hesitate just _a little bit_ when I go to shake their hand, like they’re afraid the freak-itis is contagious! You might not notice, but I _do._ ”

“I’m sorry Stanford… I'm sorry you've been treated that way.” Fiddleford sighed, scooting his chair closer to Ford. “Well, other people can be cruel, that's fer sure. But I don't think you're a freak, you're a genius.” Fiddleford wrapped an arm around Ford's shoulder. “And even if you weren't a genius, you still wouldn't be a freak. Everybody's got somethin’ about ‘em that makes ‘em a little weird. It ain't a bad thing. Listen, there's a music festival off campus and college students get in free. Whaddya say we ditch the board game and go out fer a night on the town?”

“A night on the town… With you?” Ford felt his face flush. “W-well… I don't see why not. ” He said, cracking a smile.

“Perfect, it’s a date! I'll run by the deli down the street and get us a picnic dinner fer ourselves!” Fiddleford said, a wide smile on his face and rushing out the door. “See you in about a half hour?”

“Yes! It’s a--” Stanford stopped short, watching Fiddleford leave. “A d-date?”

Stanford ran back to his dorm in a panic. _If this is a date, what am I supposed to wear? What do you wear to a concert? What if someone sees us together? What if it's not a date!_ Ford tore through his dresser drawers, desperately searching for something that would be acceptable for his theoretical date. Eventually he settled on a pale blue button up shirt, paired with khakis and a brown sweater vest, hastily putting them on and rushing to meet Fiddleford outside.

Fiddleford waited for Stanford outside their dorm building, still wearing his patched together, too-big “my Ma says I’m supposed to grow into them” bellbottoms, and a Peace corps shirt, his silhouette a mess of neon greens and yellows and pinks and oranges and blues, topped with a pinstriped, fringed vest. His hands held a brown paper bag full of food for their picnic, and he had a blanket tucked under his arm. “Well howdy!” He said when Ford practically burst through the doors. “Boy, you sure clean up nice.”

“T-thank you!” Ford replied, a little too loud. “S-so do you need help carrying that stuff?” Ford said, awkwardly reaching for the bag, for something to steady his shaking hands.

Fiddleford handed Ford the blanket, keeping the bag for himself. “I want supper to be a surprise! Now, c’mon, before it gets too dark. It should be at the park a few blocks away from here.”

“Alright, just l-lead the way!” Stanford said, clutching the blanket just a little too tightly.

Fiddleford led the way to the park, whistling and making light conversation, an awful lot of pep in his step. Ford was intently listening, analyzing Fiddleford's every move for _some_ indication that this excursion was, in fact, a date. So far he hadn't found any conclusive evidence for either side, and Ford was quite frustrated.

Once they reached the park, it was packed. There was a small stage set up at the end of the park, and hundreds of people laid out on blankets and in lawn chairs, drinking and smoking and enjoying the folksy rock music that filled the air. Fiddleford guided Ford to an empty patch of grass in the back of the park, right underneath a maple tree. Stanford unfolded the blanket while Fiddleford set up their dinner. He had purchased two sub sandwiches from the deli near campus, along with a big bag of potato chips, and a six pack of cheap beer.

“Fiddleford, you… you really went all out for this, didn’t you?” Ford said, smiling as he sat down on the blanket, unwrapping his sandwich.

“I wasn’t really prepared, sorry it’s not anythin’ fancy.” Fiddleford said, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. He cracked open a beer and handed it to Stanford.

“No, no, I like it. Thanks.” Stanford said, taking a swig of beer to soothe his nerves.

Fiddleford cracked his open and took a generous drink as well, wiping his mouth with his sleeve when he finished. “Yer welcome.” Fiddleford started on his sandwich, wracking his brain for something to say, some way to break the ice. “S-So, nice band they’ve got here, huh?”

“Y-yes! This almost sounds like the music you play.” Stanford said, leaning back against the maple tree. “I think I l-like yours better though…”

“Do you really? I sometimes write my own music… but it’s nothin’ like what those folks can do. I think I’ll stick to engineering for now.” Fiddleford chuckled and opened up the potato chips. “Isn’t this better than bein’ cooped up at the school all evenin’?”

“I-- Yes, yes it is.” Ford said, taking another sip of beer. “Thank you for inviting me. And for dinner.”

“Thank you for keepin’ me company… I really enjoy your company, you know?” Fiddleford said, scooting closer to Stanford.

“R-Really?” Ford fought to hide his quickened breathing, the way his face flushed when Fiddleford moved closer. “I enjoy your comp-- company as well, Fidds.”

Fiddleford smiled, his nickname making his heart beat faster. As casually as he possibly could, Fiddleford placed his free hand over Stanford’s, gripping it gently.

The entire world seemed to melt away in that moment, it felt like Ford was flying through space, his heart rate picking up until it beat so fast he could barely feel it. Stanford Pines didn’t _dare_ move his hand. Christ, it had been so _long_ since anyone had really accepted them, even when he’d managed to find a date or two in high school, holding hands was definitely out of the question.

“...You really don’t think they’re weird… do you?” Stanford’s voice was quiet, awestruck. Fiddleford barely heard it above the music.

When Ford’s words registered, Fiddleford laced his fingers with Ford’s, a perfect fit. “I think they’re beautiful.” Fiddleford was afraid to look Stanford in the eye, afraid that he would pull away, change his mind, decide that what they were doing was wrong. Ford’s brain nearly stopped working, the only thought running through his head being _beautiful, beautiful, no one’s ever said they were beautiful._

Stanford gave Fiddleford’s hand a gentle squeeze, letting out a breathy sigh. “E-Even when we didn’t get along, you never made fun of them _once_.”

Fiddleford brought Ford’s hand close to his face, and kissed the back of Ford’s hand, doing what he could to assure Ford that his intentions were pure. “Because I respect you, an’ you don’t deserve that.”

Stanford absolutely _melted_ , covering his now beet-red face with his free hand and leaning up against Fiddleford, never wanting to let go. Fiddleford beamed, ear to ear, and welcomed Ford closer, supporting him. They sat together silently for a while, listening to the music and each other’s heartbeats. Stanford was so at peace, his beer went unfinished, the sub sandwich began to wilt and he hadn’t even gotten to the chips by the time the concert had ended and everyone was making their way home from the park. He didn’t want this moment to ever end. A few stray couples lingered on their blankets, engaging in activities _far_ more serious than holding hands. As soon as Fiddleford noticed, he pulled away, his face red. “Why don’t we head back to the dorm?”

Stanford frowned when he noticed Fiddleford pulling away, until he saw the rest of the crowd. “Oh, yes, we definitely should.” He said, a little too quickly.

Fiddleford couldn’t help but laugh, being surrounded in such an awkward situation. “Goodness, people sure are forward out here…” 

“We should definitely leave, right _now_.” Ford said, taking hold of Fiddleford’s hand and gathering up what was left of their dinner. “But… this was nice.”

Fiddleford helped Ford carry their belongings and pulled Ford by the hand, sprinting back to their dorm and laughing, overwhelmed with bliss. He couldn’t have imagined a better night, even is the ending was a little shaky. Ford was delighted that the night _had_ turned into a date after all, too delighted to mind if anyone saw them, if anyone added “queer” to the list of insults they hurled at him regularly.

“That was-- I can't believe we just--” Ford gasped for breath, squeezing Fiddleford's hand tight, never wanting to let go. “I mean, the concert was--”

Fiddleford leaned down to give Ford a quick kiss on the cheek. “The concert was nice, but the night don’ have to end. Wanna see what cooky late night movie specials are on TV at this hour? Before the channels sign off?”

Ford laughed, his voice cracking like a twelve-year-old in the throes of puberty , his face flushed and a dopey smile slowly making its way from one ear to the other. “You know... I’d really like that.”


End file.
